My Woe in the Al-jazirah

Suddenly, the winds of treachery swept through the peaceful, innocent nests in the villages of the island. Those who heard nothing but the sound of the matar, celebrated in the poet Mohamed Bashir Atik’s song, and the sounds of nature which brought them messages they understood from bleating, meowing, howling, and chirping of birds to whom Asher Al-Falatiya sang, Sing, O Birds, Sing! Other familiar sounds, each carrying a meaning—they would rush to answer if necessary or, if reassured, simply go back to sleep.

They lean, their eyes fixed on the distant faint lightning with a mix of hope and fear, as their crops still hang in the balance. They carried no weapons and took no precautions except by relying on the Creator and Sustainer of all things, praying for a season that spares them from the plagues of crop and livestock, asking only for protection (from disasters and misfortune).

This was how they lived, moving among each other with love, sorrow, joy, dislike, and generosity. No thought clouded their lives or threatened to uproot them from the land into which they had sown their souls, sprouting trees bearing a legacy of generosity and giving. When planting, they say, For us, for others, and for our birds, as Ismail Wad Hadd Al-Zain said, My homeland, where even the birds come hungry and leave full. Some of this bounty feeds the economy, some keep the spirit of time alive, some clothe us in beauty, and from it we craft our nation’s flag and symbol of sovereignty, singing before it: We are God’s soldiers, the soldiers of the homeland… We face death in times of hardship, and, In my heart, it is cared for, the beloved homeland.

But what has happened now? Has their judgment day arrived, and are they now in the hands of the tormentors? Or are they targeted simply for being innocent?

Who are these invaders? Do they know us? Are they from us, born from the same mother who nourished us with all that is beautiful and noble? Where are the followers of the law among those who don’t even have a television to recognize the president if they meet him in the market, or to call upon him in serious matters, as Magzoub once said?

These tyrants did not pause to celebrate the birth of the Prophet, peace be upon him, with them, nor join them in praising the Saraya so that their hearts might soften. They did not weep with the yearning of Haj Al-Mahi or chant, Near him before death to tell their hardened hearts, as the late poet Humaid said, Lay down your weapons.

Did they hear their mourning song, My woe in the beautiful island, with its cool water jar, sung with a sorrowful voice by Eman Al-Sharif? Did they come to dance with them and drink a refreshing sip from that jar, to forget the weariness of tilling and cultivating? These invaders listened to nothing but the call, For a little fortune, we ride iron beasts, as they kill, loot, rape, and humiliate the elderly, dragging them from their places of dignity without a blink of remorse. It is indeed their war with God. (And those who have wronged shall come to know what fate awaits them).